"crunched" poems
The other night
I spent all of my tears & paid all my prayers,
I had hoped it would end it all.
My pillows
cashed in the huge streaming check
from every drop my eyes spilled.
My blanket held me down
while both thought took turns
throwing hard punches & kicks
at every square-inch on my body.
Then
my bones crunched
with every attempt
to fully drain the hope-
-ful air in my lungs.
I could only lay there.
Twitching out breathless cries,
rubbing blood out of my eyes
& taking it all in for the whole night.
The following day
I brought these thugs to work
but no one else seemed to notice.
My doctor tried to numb me with pills,
& I must admit
although they did work at giving it all the cold shoulder,
it didn't take long
before I struggled to use my shoulder
With their knives & spears steaked into my skin.
Every night now, I sleep to their stories
& their bullying,
eyes-wide,
cut-throat,
focused on breathing all night.
I thought I could fake my way through it all
but now
these noices have started making sense
& I
don't know why I'm breathing anymore.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 3:42 AM UTC
dead soldiers from the night before
stared up from their hiding spot still
in their brown uniforms
the snap of the sheath was lost in the
snap crackle and pop of the dying embers
the blade of the axe tested on a thumbnail
cut a satisfying line to proof the sharpness
you turned with precision and gravel crunched
beneath your feet, eyes searching for the
driest piece to feel the point of the heavy head
your whistling echoed from your lips as
trees dance to your tune in the not so gentle breeze
fleshy hands and oak handle embracing
log victim placed on the sacrificial stump
lined up your trial mark 'practice makes perfect'
the swift swinging arm motion followed by
sound from a sudden swing forced a new echo
through the trees landing with a solid thump
and silence
with more whistling eerily into the silence between
the splitting of each one after another, the red painted
axe head was gleaming with each chop while ready
to work again and again and...
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
A large red elephant jumped on the trampoline.
Somewhere in the distance a blue eyed babe cried.
Rednecks clad in Paul Bunyan shirts inhaled the fumes of their barbecues.
Moving gracefully, a trapeze dancer tip-toed across the river.
My wife slumbered on our couch,
And wind blew a kite out of my hands.
I fed a goat nectar from my hands.
A crowd encircled the trampoline.
My family purchased a new couch,
And later that day we helplessly cried.
Our wailing could not be heard across the river,
Where rednecks continued to inhale the fumes of their barbecues.
Neighbors massed to celebrate barbecues.
I looked down at my blood stained hands,
Then joined the beautiful trapeze dancer across the river.
My red elephant broke the trampoline
And we were surrounded by infinite crying.
Nobody sat on the new couch.
Many problems arrived with the new couch;
There weren’t any more barbecues,
And my teeth crunched on granola as we cried.
Silky fabric embraced my hands.
Ingrid, my wife, dies on the trampoline.
She was buried across the river.
Some guy drank all the water from the river,
And started living on our couch.
Who would have thought I met lily on the trampoline,
And who would have thought I took up barbecues.
Now I felt warmth on the back of my hand
And I no longer cried.
Only the winter wind cried,
Howling over Ingrid’s grave across the river.
I slapped an elephant carcass with my hand,
Proceeding to cook it with salt and pepper on the couch.
I bored my wife with barbecues
So she went to jump on they trampoline.
Lily died on the trampoline; I always cried.
No longer did I host barbecues, the wind continued to howl across the river.
I gutted the couch, and killed myself with the back of my hand.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
Brazen rusted iron-scent of blood–
there, before him, a river of crimson and failed dreams.
No boat, no oars.
Just plain chivalry and bravery and yesteryears’ scars
that manifest all throughout and within him.
He dips his feet.
There were scattered skeletons
and crunched broken bones
basking under the dunes of the night.
There were ghosts clinging
unto his own ghosts;
creatures against creatures.
The tip of their swords
sinking down to his own tired flesh
in attempt to find refuge
in the treacherous wings of the forests.
He swims along.
And his shoulders were battered
and his mare was tainted–
with dirt and dust and ashes of the enemies;
with memories and silhouettes buried
sent flying along the caresses
of the north winds.
He gasps for air, and stills himself under the ebbs.
Under many moons and scarcity of life–
Scarcity of Life–
the recurring sight of the gaseous light
and the inconsistency of the breath-intervals,
he remains still and proud.
His soles burnt with pain and interminable suffering
as it crossed the stretches of the savanna.
This is his life,
dwelling on the dawn borealis
and stained with apparitions of the past
and demons and absurdity.
He has crossed the river.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
I found myself missing
someone who used to
like all the little things
about me, so I went on
a little scavenger hunt
picking up bobby pins
and crunched up leaves;
a couple old CDs and
a bunch of little words
left unsaid; a tiny music
box and a ton of old
pictures that are the only
pieces left as proof and
all the little things were
laid out and added up
only to disappear in an
instant because they do
not even resemble who I
am anymore —
who am i
who
am
i
gd
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
1
Grey sky greyer sea
a litter of rocks balance
coat bright hat blue mittens striped
as on these November steps
you collect the gifts of the ebb tide
2
Glint green this living tapestry echoes
Jilly’s field with tractor not Devon
but salt-flats rocky revetments moorland rising
a map crossed by a chiromatic line
our destiny marked out on this concrete wall?
3
Beached clinkered double-ender
a bay-courser sjekte strand-crunched
fit once for Viking raiders two abreast
now daubed with tin ends of patriotic paint
a sea-steed hobbled hard on the shore
4
Bow faced a sea helmet thrice rope strapped
slow moulded over the boat builder’s ribbanded jig
a spanglehelm of wood
curved sheer straked plank bilged a tuck stern
raising its proud head seaward
5
Viewed from the air a map rolls out
north to the tilted curve of the horizon’s rim
cloud scattered mountained red
betwixt seas sun chalked wine-stained a volcanic isthmus
provokes desert the western waste land of a brooding city
6
Oh face of ropes knot eyed!
you blue cheeked wide smiler
wild wild your head of hair
beachcombed and splayed
wrapped on the sternest post
7
She sewed sugar kelp on the sea shore
a sporophyte with sheltered frond
strap-like stem stiff and smooth
of the species saccharina a spring-tide
stalk set among substrates shells and stones
8
I the camera turned and caressed
by her slight fingers (the pinky raised)
my viewfinder close to her blue grey eye / I
focus on this kelp-needled novelty feel her breath
wait for the thumb press the electronic click
9
Here is the beach walked in darkness
the fishermen shadows against the moonstruck ebb
fingers laced the sea’s breath in our ears
wave upon wave un-folding on the sand and later
we unfold then draw back in love’s relentlessness
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
Your fingers soared over the keys.
You breathed love into the warm, bell-like tones.
You shook your head if you missed a note,
your eyes danced,
and around your grin
your mouth said
"I still have time,"
you said.
"I still have time before the concert."
A family trip, driving home,
back from the dunes of Michigan.
A father, mother, brother, you,
a sister left at home.
You sat in the back.
You were laughing, your family.
It was the last time they've laughed so hard.
A bend in the road,
a turn into town,
your car,
slowing down.
A different car, behind you,
did not slow down.
It slammed straight into you.
The metal crunched behind you,
the car spun, and your head bounced.
A helicopter came,
to take you away.
It was too quiet at the hospital.
But you couldn't tell.
You were in a coma.
"Brain trauma,"
the doctors said.
"And a broken leg and clavicle."
They didn't mention the broken
hearts.
They tried to pump life into your chest,
air into your lungs,
much like you
pumped life into the body of your clarinet.
But the machines failed where you did not.
The human in you had gone;
only a body was left.
You're playing for the angels now,
I know you are.
There's a smile on your lips,
in your eyes,
your brown, dancing eyes,
as your fingers effortlessly
fly over the keys,
you play
for the only audience
that could ever
hold you.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
Tick
The days pass, without my consent it seems, but the hours themselves tick by only slowly enough to make you aware of their existence
Just slow enough to check the clock twice in one minute- a little too quick to remember the time you just checked twice.
With every blink of an eye, a billion seconds pass. And every second brings with it the minutes that drag endlessly into semi-existence.
The void in which numbers are crunched into value, and value placed on the non-existent merely because we are able.
Tock
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
Sharp breath
Carving out the carcass
Shaving away sanity
Cringing.
Shallow plunge
Into sinister sea of shards
Crinkling cracking
Cringing.
Cowering for invisibility
Hiding behind folds of
Crunched eyelids
Cringing.
Hollowed by fire
Raw red remnants
Crumbling, ashes ashes
Cringing.
Projected perfection
Diabolical demons dream
In absence
Cringing.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
The dark winter sky was draped with stars whose dainty shimmer
mimicked the sprinkle of snow
caught up in the crisp winter breeze.
The white flakes winked as they came to rest upon a silent sheet of ice,
accumulating on the sleek surface until abruptly–
a clatter of loud and excited voices interrupted.
Skates slashed and
sticks crashed onto the cold, hard ice.
A black puck cascaded haphazardly across the rink, bombarding the once settled snow.
Chunks of ice catapulted recklessly,
the smell of sweat rose relentlessly into the wind.
Furious and frozen wisps of breathe were choked,
as bitter cold filled eager lungs.
The ruthless weather, however, could scarcely graze the laughing dimples on rosy cheeks.
But just as hastily the clatter was silenced,
the commotion halted.
Footprints crunched softly away, their noise secretly swept away
by the sprinkle of snow
caught up in the crisp winter breeze.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
isn't she golden,
shining in the light?
she fits comfortably into
the golden ration,
reducing the apples of her cheeks
and the width of her hips
and the length of her fingers
to meaningless numbers,
crunched into a calculator, checking
if she still looked golden.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
Electrifying, so alive
while the mind goes black
Feelings thrive
all at once..
can it please stop?
tapping fingers
crunched up toes
never ready
never set
but always goes
all around me
deep inside me
turning stomach
nervous blow
all the air, intoxicated
filling quickly inside my throat
worries worries
something's wrong
3, 2,1
finally done
one more breath
relaxation
there it goes,
Here it comes…
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
drowned and round again
in sick little circles
chopping at the bar
a round
and drown again
in little sickle stumbles
chopping wise at the bar
with your wage crunched
in one mitt
and your obscenity
gripped
in the other
Mar 18, 2022
Mar 18, 2022 at 10:18 PM UTC
the wicked queen of morning
greets you with
clutching shore
little pebbles in the stream
rob red rubies
from dead fish bellies
on a rock
there are some feathers
a broken beak
crunched bones
your attention is cut
with the dead kiss
of a woodpecker
you are bound
to relive the death
of thousands of forests
bound to kiss
the stream’s mojo
laughter
listen—
the stream is still asleep
its floor is falling through
the weight of its slumber
nothing can contain it
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
i waited there. i waited for hours. i waited for days. no one ever came.
seasons changed, leaves fell, the ground hardened and snow caked every treetop. and still no one came.
one day a woman with a child walked by. they were not who i was waiting for. they crunched along the leaf-strewn path, nodded a greeting toward me, and continued on. so i kept waiting.
it rained hard and often that spring. the path was unclear, and the trees were bent in exhaustion. flower buds wrapped themselves in blankets of green as they reached toward the soft, muddy ground, trying to find a bed.
one great tree stood tall on the edge of the forest. it was split down the middle, into two distinct twin trees, each competing to reach the top of the surrounding canopy first. the bark peeled as the twins stretched and grew. as the years passed the twins became tired, and so they stopped racing and waited instead for something new to come into their lives.
i decided i would no longer wait. i walked along the path, kicking dead leaves out of the way, their arms curling around their bodies for warmth. i whistled, i skipped, i picked flowers and weeds to make you a bouquet. i wandered for days and found nothing. and so i waited again for you.
there was a patch of violet hyacinth flowers along the path. they sprung from the ground and surrounded an old tree stump, as if shielding it from harm. their leaves were an impenetrable gate that could wait all summer, protecting their beloved, lost tree. the stump would always be safe. no matter how long it remained there.
in the fall, a twiggy stickling of a tree dropped most of its sun bleached red leaves. one fell into my hood. i took it out and twirled it between my fingers. the days were getting shorter, and seeing the sun light the remaining leaves was like watching the branches start on fire.
i wandered toward the edge of the forest and sat against the largest tree i could find. the tree was split down the middle, and each half was just as tall as the other. i decided this was the king tree of the forest. i fashioned two crowns out of the hydrangeas and mountain laurel i picked on my journey and hung them on the lowest branch of each twin king. i laid the red leaf i picked out of my hood in the crevice where the twins split from each other, and bowed to the king of the forest. as i marched away i hummed a tune i can only describe as majestic.
i am still waiting. the daisies and dandelions dance in the wind to pass the time. although there are burrs on my socks and bug bites on my knees, i will continue to wait. i'll wait for days, for years. i will wait for you.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
I woke to find the world covered in white
I ran down the stairs,
Opened the door,
Running through the white ground
Sinking deep,
Lying flat the ground beneath.
Cold,
Vivid white,
Pure,
It crunched under my weight,
I spread my arms out like wings
My feet spread
I moved them in sync
Left
to
Right
My head still,
As it sunk ever more deep
I lifted up to see what was done
A white snow angel
Pure as the snow that surrounds
I made a wish to the snow angel
Protect,
Care,
Look after
Those in this house from now,
The hours past it went to fast,
I slept a deep sleep blanketed in the dark
I woke as light pierced the room
Shoeing the darkness away.
I looked out to the ground below,
Where once there was one
Now more did appear, encircling the house
Days pasted and the white did fade,
But the angels now ice
Not melted away,
The sun shone down,
The ice did gradually faded away.
I awoke to my mothers voice
Come look my child,
Wings spread,
Angels before my eyes,
What once was white
Its shadow in green,
They heard my wish
Though the snow had gone,
They were still here there circle of wings.
Here to stay to forever protect me
And those who live in this house,
Each year it snows.
Cold,
Vivid white,
Pure,
The angels appear,
But leave a space, for my own angel to reappear
As I lie in the crisp white ground
Surrounded by my angels all year round.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
yesterday my feet rested comfortably on the bar of someone else's chair
and my eyelids slid heavy and the world seemed slow
a graph of survivorship curves glowing blurry on the whiteboard
and then words slid from behind a neatly trimmed white beard
". . . .as our bodies are programmed to die."
as our bodies are programmed to die.
*thousands of miles away
one gleaming thought against a murky sky
(that's how i imagine it anyway--murky, cold,
stagnant air)
a frantic explosion of lean muscle power
and a body launching into the lake.
he was 17 and in that moment gears somewhere in this world shifted,
numbers were crunched and
some profound device processed the seconds, linking and unlinking them with an automatic, well-oiled certainty
he was 17 and the number on his football jersey suited him like wool socks on winter feet
his stride under the lights a weekly prize to all hungry, bleacher-ed, washed-up life-hunters bundled against october-night chill-streaked skies
they drank hot cocoa and he took three sips of gatorade
he was 17 and his smile
and his curls
and we all hear about hospitals but
this feels different because
he was 17 and suddenly,
instantaneously
his body was just a beep
and his skin turned the color of the walls
first the ICU painted quick brushstrokes across his wrists
then it stopped giving a **** at all
and the water rushed endlessly, heartlessly.
when I shift through memories and
find his seven-year old face in my mind, i remember a gap
where he'd lost a front tooth and i remember sunlight streaming behind his hair
it was valentine's day and he gave me a small smile and a silver charm bracelet in a powder blue box.*
i shifted my feet
heard the snap of a binder closing
and all i could think about was
the oversimplification of words
and survivorship curves
and 17 years
and
and
piles of numbers spurting from a computer
and an echo of a splash.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Arthur McKnight was a powerful man and New York was his playground. Not that he ventured out anymore at night now that he had met Evangeline. The long days of mind-numbing numbers he crunched managing Wall Street hedge funds had taken their toll on him over the years, but becoming intimate with Evangeline had saved him, had changed him in ways so fundamental that for him she was all that mattered.
Arthur no longer noticed these subtle differences. He daydreamed by the dim LCD light of stock tickers, craving the touch that only his woman could bestow upon him. He had surrendered completely to her bliss.
These days when he woke to her already gone from his Upper West Side apartment all that was left of her presence was a lipstick kiss on the mirror and a bottle of Sally Hansen Tangerine Orange nailpolish. The quiet was deafening, but that bottle of Sally Hansen left on the bathroom counter held the promise of Evangeline's return.
It was just after 7 p.m. when Arthur made it home and he could already sense her. She was coming. He strode with purpose to his master suite, spying the black thigh-highs and silky red dress he had laid out for her arrival. The waiting was unbearable, and Arthur finally broke, needing Evangeline so badly he could smell her perfume, could taste her in his throat. It was time; no more waiting.
"You look lovely tonight, Evangeline," Arthur croaked aloud as he pulled the first of the thigh highs onto his shaven legs...
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Knuckles knee-deep in bright orange dust
Her words half-crunched
In a hurricane of hurried lunch
I mix in wit to her serious plot
Her mouth flies open, filled with half-chewed corn starch
And she still looks like a matriarch
We turned the radio on
But was gradually turned down
The ridged **** twisted all the way around
So she'd mention a song and I'd ask her
"How's that goes again?"
To hear her voice slip in and out
When really I knew it all by heart
Even when there was no reason to,
We smiled
Giggled off each other's cues
She looked from me once
Her eyes widening like a telescope
Mouth gaping, absent of laughter, as she braced a hand against my chest
The liquid-like sucker punch
Of the metal colliding quick
Like jelly under a rolling pin, I stuck
Grasping onto prayers with my fingers loose as God
She didn't scream, just held my shirt
As my tumbleweed Taurus vaulted yet another foot
Into the same solid ground, the same stars of shards
Mingled with bright orange dust sifting through the air.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
Beautiful curves
Like conjoined maltesers
She melted under your touch,
And you crunched away all her inner toughness
With each little nip at her neck.
It was hot and
She stuck to your fingers.
So you bathed together,
Hot and steamy
And then you melted too.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
It was hot,
so ******* hot.
My house was hotter than *** with a wool sock.
Of course,
there was only one course of action I could take,
get naked.
And so I was naked.
Later that day,
I was walking to the kitchen,
when suddenly,
my belly button started to itch.
I looked down,
and out of my bell button,
crawled an enormous, hairy tarantula.
I immediately slapped the tarantula off my stomach,
and crushed it with my bare foot.
It crunched beneath my foot,
and its slimy being squirted everywhere.
Then, my ear started to itch,
and out crawled,
another tarantula.
Soon,
my throat began to itch,
and my nose began to itch,
and my ******* began to itch..
I don't know why my ******* were itchy,
but,
anyway,
tarantulas began crawling out of all the holes my body had.
Then,
my **** began to itch.
"NO!!" I screamed.
But my words had no power,
and out crawled more tarantulas from my ****
I slowly fell to my knees,
as the tarantulas poured out of my lifeless body.
I did not know what to do,
so I ran to the back of my house,
opened the glass slider,
ran onto the back deck,
and jumped off.
Sadly,
this did not **** me,
and I only broke both my legs.
The bones were sticking straight out of my knees,
and tarantulas began crawling out of my open wounds.
I soon began to choke on the tarantulas,
suffocated,
and died.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 2:24 AM UTC
A little slice of the pie
I try to consume but I
throw it up every time.
Bulimic the scenic
route I take.
No mistake I meant to regurgitate.
Choking down lies, smiling like it taste great.
Get another helping of the American pie plate.
Washed down
with whiskey, strong and brown
like the strong and brown brothers
that scalped heads and used skins for covers.
Good morning, America!
Ignore the hysteria.
Pay attention to the sensations
on the surface area
Cap'n crunch
is more important Captains getting crunched
in a 13 year war we started off a hunch.
If you pay attention to the news
notice they ignore the trues
like the flammable water coming from your hose
or the fact you can't afford your children's clothes
We're buying apps and devices for $1200,maybe,
instead of $20 to buy a real ukelele
You see, we pay companies
to do things
because we're conditioned to be
to lazy when DIY was the real American dream.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
.
(Sippy cups are for toddlers, designed to let them sip but a little sip at a time, and when it falls, the disaster is lessened.)
totally by accident is this dedicated to TL Sipple, whose introspection offers comfort to more than many.
~~~~~~~~~
*who among us has not begun the
journey's poetic, by first examining the
mirror that reflects organs internal,
flipping the reversible glass over,
for all you exposed,
it's the curse, the birthing natural,*
of the first poem
*all your life, streams bustling, streams drying, drought dying,
leaves windy flying up, but final poisoned by gravity,
come to rest and crunched under your footfalls,
but of this did you write, scrivened or scribed?
no
our first child is of our ***** where real borning does occur.
the rest too, but now, and soon thereafter,
put aside the me, and write of he and she,
the first love, always the second child,
for this the nature of the soul and ermine robe,
you elected, when you first self-selected*
I am a poet, therefore I hit send,
*and the diecast, is the first of many hot rods
piercing, invading, calling out to you,
poet,
"set me free, set me free"
then when walking in September,
the leaves un-glistening, cracking and *****
like an old person who cannot care for them self
then you lift your pen, point to the sky or to the earth,
no matter which, for both are loco parents in loco,
and the truest hardest journey begins,
looking outside in, with eyes colored by
global truths
then and only then the real journey begins,
a differing agony to be learned,
to see as others see,
to write as others have before you and me,
and in doing so, this testing travail,
will earn you, could earn you, a time grade of
pass/fail
you are the only judge in this show,
the only contestant,
what grade will you assign yourself,
what standards will you set,
until you ask,
who are the poets time idolizes?*
american idol, throw away your sippy cup, and drink from the river, from the sea, drink deep, until sated,
then begin your foolishness
readied, all over again
poet to please invisible gods,
that all can see
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
I was born in terrorism.
I grew up in earthquakes, tsunamis and rebels:
in shouting blond girls with red eyes and pixel
smiles.
I was born in blurred faces and mute
voices pulling at my
eyes until I dripped the clotted
tears of a thousand soldiers, or refugees,
or children.
I was atomized, crunched
into small seeds and scattered
across a desert field.
Someday a flower would grow there,
budded from the bones
of my being and
flowered into a fiery,
empty marigold-- dripping
gold and embers across a thirsty desert,
where the shout
of the civilians was distant
enough to ignore.
I was sodomized,
conceived in the roar--
of the rumbling wave- crashing over-
pulsing through her thrashing cave.
I watched my flower whither
and blister with the deliberate count
down and the glare of the
floodlights-- dowsed in water and soil--
or some semblance of the two.
I was born in the blood
of my mother and died in the
womb of the world.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC